by Clare Flynn
Eventually she went back into the house and sought sanctuary in her bedroom, trying to blot out what she had seen. Hephzibah had been unable to see the face of the woman but it had been impossible to miss the tumble of chestnut hair.
She picked up her book and tried to concentrate, but the image of those pumping buttocks, the woman’s moans and the squire’s grunts would not leave her.
Abigail Cake was disporting herself with the father as well as the son.
Hephzibah knelt on the floor, surrounded by the contents of her trinket box. She had sorted through everything three times already and there was no sign of her mother’s locket. She was certain she had taken it off the previous evening when she went to bed, carefully stowing it inside the trinket box with her few other items of jewellery. Her door had been locked during the night – as was now her custom since the unwelcome visitation from Abigail Cake – then this morning she had gone down to breakfast in a hurry and, when she put her hand up to her neck, she had realised she had forgotten to put the locket on. The bedroom had been unlocked for the half hour she was breakfasting. Opening all the drawers, she pulled out the contents then refolded everything and returned it, before moving on to check the small side tables, one in front of the window and the other beside the bed. Finally, she lay on the floor on her stomach and looked underneath the bed. Nothing. The Ribbon Thief had struck again.
Was the girl a kleptomaniac – a magpie, unable to control her actions? The defiant look Abigail had given her in church when she was wearing the ribbons indicated that her thefts were deliberate acts. Had she seen Hephzibah the previous day when she was engaged in sexual intercourse with the squire? Was this punishment for Hephzibah discovering her secret? Thinking about what she had witnessed made Hephzibah feel nauseous. It was impossible to get the memory of those huge white buttocks pounding against the body of the woman and the woollen-stockinged legs wrapped around the squire’s pale flabby flesh. Did the bailiff, Ned Cake, know that his daughter was servicing the squire? Did he condone it?
She had to get her mother’s locket back. Letting that woman keep it was unthinkable. The locket meant too much to her. It was the only possession she had that came from her real father. It had been a gift from him to her mother and thence to her. Tears of grief and anger rose up inside her. She wouldn’t let Abigail Cake get away with it. She couldn’t. That locket meant nothing to the bailiff’s daughter. She pondered her options. She could go to Mrs Andrews, but the housekeeper would inevitably launch a full investigation of all members of the household, risking that the servants would henceforth treat her with contempt for mistrusting them. And what was the point? Abigail Cake didn’t live in the Hall and had no reason to be there so would not even be included in the enquiries.
The only solution was for Hephzibah to confront the woman directly. She ran downstairs and sought out Mrs Andrews. She told her she needed a dress to be altered and wanted to know where she might find Miss Cake.
The bailiff’s cottage was on the edge of the estate, close to the village. It was a brick-built dwelling, surrounded by trees which shielded it from the driveway, so Hephzibah almost walked past it. She had never noticed the narrow track despite passing by so many times before.
The place looked scruffy – green moss covering half the thatch, piles of rusty farm implements stacked against the wall and a pair of pigs truffling around in front, eating food scraps from a pail they had knocked over. A dog on a long chain began barking as Hephzibah approached the door.
Wisps of smoke were coming from the chimney so someone must be at home. Hephzibah prayed she would find Abigail Cake alone. She picked her way through the scattered potato peelings and bits of bone and knocked on the door, her heart thumping as loudly as the knocker. After a few moments, the door swung open and Abigail Cake was standing there, hands on hips.
‘I was expecting you,’ she said. ‘Better come in.’
Hepzhibah was so surprised she was lost for words, but followed the young woman inside the cottage. The interior was gloomy but clean. A large cooking range stood in the fireplace, the wall above it blackened with smoke and hung with pots and pans. The furniture was sparse – just a pair of wooden chairs and a wooden settle, a cradle in the corner and some rush matting on the floor in front of the range. The cradle held no baby but appeared to be used for storing clothing.
Abigail pointed to one of the chairs and Hephzibah sat down. She was about to speak when Abigail came towards her with her hand outstretched. In her open palm was the missing locket.
‘I only took it so as you’d come and find me. I knew you’d know it was me as you saw me wearing your ribbons. I haven’t stolen your locket. But I am keeping the ribbons.’ Her voice was sly. ‘They suit my hair colour better than they would yours.’ Her expression was defiant.
Hephzibah put the locket around her neck and nodded at her. ‘It was my late mother’s. She died recently. She gave it to me when I was twelve.’ As she said the words she wondered why she was explaining herself to this woman. ‘I was devastated when I thought I’d lost it.’
The girl gave a sarcastic snort. ‘You didn’t think you’d lost it. You knew I had it. Same as the ribbons.’ She sat down in the chair opposite, dragging it closer over the stone-flagged floor until she was sitting with her knees almost touching Hephzibah’s.
Abigail leaned forward, her hands on her hips. ‘So, Miss Wildman, has the squire asked you to marry him yet?’
Hephzibah gave a little gasp of surprise.
‘Don’t look so shocked. He asks them all. Maybe not the old ones. But all the others. You are one of a long line of governesses. One of them actually said yes to him. That put the fear of God in the old buffer. He just says it to get their hopes up. Make them think they’re about to be lady of the manor. But it’s just to soften them up so he can have his way with them. As soon as he made a move they ran a mile. Those bookish women don’t like the idea of a fat old man pawing them and sticking his tongue down their throats and his hands up their skirts. Except for Anne Gordon. She actually shared a bed with him until his fiancée Lady Roderick found out, sent her packing and then dumped him.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because he tried the same tricks with me. Well, he’s never offered marriage. Doesn’t need to in my case. And he knows I’d know it was too daft to be true.’ She stared at Hephzibah defiantly. ‘You saw us in the temple yesterday didn’t you?’
Hephzibah nodded, increasingly puzzled by what Abigail wanted with her. Why was she telling her all this?
‘I let him have his way with me because if I don’t he’ll dismiss my father and then we’ll all be out of a home. I’ve the rest of my family to think about. I’d never let that old devil touch me otherwise.’
She gathered her apron up in her hands, squeezing the fabric into a ball, then smoothing it out again. Hephzibah realised that under her insolent exterior the girl was nervous.
‘Look,’ said Abigail, ‘the reason I wanted to speak to you is I don’t want you telling anybody about what you saw. My reputation is bad enough anyway and I don’t want folk knowing I’ve been with the squire.’ She paused for a moment. ‘That is, I don’t want my father to know. He’d kill the old devil, then they’d send him to the gallows and where would we be? And he’s always looking for any excuse to take a strap to me.’ She got up from her chair and carried it back across the room, then went over to the range and gave the contents of simmering pot a stir.
‘But that’s dreadful,’ said Hephzibah. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with that. Not with what the squire is doing and not with your father beating you either. Have you told the Reverend Nightingale? He might be able to intercede on your behalf.’
Abigail turned back to face Hephzibah. ‘Mind your own business. I don’t like you, Miss Wildman. I don’t like what you stand for. You with your city ways and your fondness for the parson. They say you’re going to marry him afore long.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘As long as the squire do
esn’t get there first and spoil you for him.’
Hephzibah stood up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I barely know the parson and as for the squire...’
The Ribbon Thief tilted her head on one side and curled her upper lip. ‘No? Then how come you’re always out walking with him. Can’t blame folk for talking.’ She sighed. ‘You’re all the same, you governesses. I’ve no time for any of you. You keep your mouth shut, Miss Wildman, or I’ll be after more than your fancy gold locket next time. Now get out of here. I’ve work to do.’ She held the cottage door open and Hephzibah went out.
Walking back to the Hall she was shaking with anger. The woman had humiliated her. No one had ever spoken to her that way before. But then she had never before witnessed anyone behaving the way Abigail Cake behaved. The woman was clearly shameless.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stitch – stitch – stitch,
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
(from The Song of the Shirt, Thomas Hood)
Hephzibah was coming to the conclusion that Thomas Egdon had flirted with her just to pass the time – or possibly to annoy his father. She constantly revisited their conversations, the riding lessons and the way he had touched her on that first lesson when getting her to sit the horse correctly. How was it possible that he had lavished so much attention upon her only to withdraw completely? Why had he spent a fortune kitting her out with riding habit, then absented himself? His promises to take her around the county had not been fulfilled, apart from their visit to the horse fair. Forget him, she told herself. Why would he be interested in you anyway? You’re only the governess. The man was a known philanderer and probably used women like her and Abigail Cake, before eventually marrying an aristocratic woman of fortune and connections. But whenever she thought about him – those intense blue eyes looking into hers, his thick silky black hair, strong nose, his cruel but beautiful mouth – she felt weak with longing.
The appointment to visit the workhouse in Mudford with Merritt Nightingale was made at last for late April. It was a pleasant two mile walk over open downland to the outskirts of the small market town of Mudford, where the workhouse was situated. As they walked, Merritt told her about the place.
‘There used to be a small poorhouse in Nettlestock, but when the Poor Laws were introduced they shut it down and opened the Union Workhouse to serve the whole area. Apparently, it didn’t go down well in the village. People liked having a local poorhouse. They used to come and go when times were hard and it was small and friendly. Now they have to be at their wits’ end to agree to going “up the hill”, as they call it.’
‘Why is that?’
‘The place is very regimented. If they’re fit, they have to do what amounts to hard labour. Families are separated. Men in one section and women, and children under three in another. The older children don’t get to see their parents while they’re inside.’
Hephzibah stopped in her tracks, causing Merritt to look back at her. Her face was a mask of disbelief. ‘Why on earth would they do that? It’s cruel.’
‘The belief is that everything needs to be done to discourage people from seeking assistance and encourage those who are able to find employment. The trouble is there isn’t enough of that to go around.’
‘But that’s punishing children for their parents’ failure to find work. How unjust.’
Merritt shook his head, his eyes sad. ‘I know, Hephzibah. The assumption that all these unfortunate people, except the old and infirm, are idlers and layabouts is badly misguided. What man would not choose honest work in order to keep a home for his wife and children? But men can’t make jobs that don’t exist appear like a conjuring trick. All it takes is a bout of illness and they can fall behind with the rent and be thrown out of their home and cast on the mercy of the parish. In the old days they could claim poor relief while remaining in their own homes but the powers-that-be reckoned that too many of them were too comfortable living off the parish.’
‘There was a workhouse in Oxford, but I never went near it. I am ashamed to say, Merritt, that I never even gave it a thought – apart from sending my late parents’ clothes there, when the house was cleared. The kind of people who lived there never touched my life in any way. I suppose I was selfish and privileged and went about with blinkers on.’
He looked at her, resisting the desire to take her hands in his. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Hephzibah. I had no idea what went on in these places either. Living in a small community like Nettlestock brings into sharp relief the problems that are all too easy to ignore in a city like Oxford.’
They walked on over the open downland, past rows of ancient oak trees that edged the road into the town. The spring had come late this year and there were still a few clusters of buttery daffodils as well as seas of bluebells in the woods they passed alongside.
The workhouse stood just outside Mudford at the top of a grassy bank. It was a forbidding building, of brick construction, with a grey slate roof and tall factory-like chimneys.
‘It’s grim. Like a prison. It seems wrong to make people live in a place like this when their only crime is poverty,’ said Hephzibah.
They went through the gates, past the chapel and into the porter’s lodge, from where they were shown to the guardians’ boardroom to await the arrival of the master.
For twenty minutes or so the master discussed the business of the workhouse with the parson, outlining the agenda for the next guardians’ board meeting, then going through the numbers of admissions and departures. Hephzibah got up from the table and went across to the tall narrow windows that looked out onto the enclosed courtyards. Merritt glanced up at her. She was standing sideways to him and he studied her profile, trying to gauge what she might be thinking. She was frowning, thoughtful, worried. He shouldn’t have brought her here. It was no place to bring a lady. And yet, he told himself, if she were to marry him he would want her to understand and share in all the elements of his life as a village parson. She turned round, caught his eye and smiled and he felt that same little surge of joy inside him that he experienced whenever she looked at him. The master coughed loudly and Merritt reluctantly returned his attention to the columns of figures.
Once the official business was out of the way, Merritt led Hephzibah downstairs and, accompanied by the matron, they undertook a tour of the facility. It being mid-afternoon, the inmates were hard at work and Merritt watched Hephzibah’s reactions as she witnessed the men smashing rocks, crushing bones for bone-meal, and chopping timber; the women at work in the kitchens, laundry and tailoring shop, or picking oakum, their fingers raw from the rough fibres of the ropes they were pulling apart. Finally, they looked through the glass panel of the classroom door where about eighty children of different ages sat tightly packed on benches as their teacher instructed them. Hephzibah gave little away. Merritt had no idea what she was thinking.
He was relieved when the tour was complete and they left the institution. As they walked back towards Nettlestock it began to rain, a fine April drizzle that soon turned into a downpour. He grabbed hold of Hephzibah’s arm and they ran towards a wooden shelter at the side of the road and flung themselves onto a bench fixed onto the back wall, the front being open to the elements.
Settling on the bench, side-by-side, Hephzibah turned her face to him and said, ‘I’m so grateful to you for taking me there today, Merritt.’
It was not the reaction he had expected. He had believed she had found the experience harrowing and he had been cursing his stupidity for dragging her there with him.
‘You’re not distressed by what you saw?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am. I had no conception of how people like that live. I’m grateful though, because it has made me thankful for my own good fortune. I’ve felt lonely and miserable since the loss of my parents, but today has made me realise how much I still have to be thankful for. I think I
would die were I to be shut away in a place like that. So thank you for showing me.’
She took off her hat, held it arm’s length and shook off the raindrops. ‘What drives a person to accept living like that, Merritt? What makes them so desperate that they’re prepared to dress in an ugly uniform and tear old ropes apart for hours until their fingers bleed? Did you see the tiny quantity of meat that went into the stew? A bit of tough old mutton gristle cut into tiny pieces and mixed in with a lot of turnips. It was turnip soup but the matron called it mutton stew!’ She shook her head. ‘How many people live there? More than one hundred and fifty the master said, didn’t he? There was only enough meat going into that pot to feed about a dozen. If they could even get the gristle down their throats.’ She squeezed her hands into fists.
Merritt placed his hand on her arm. ‘I know. And the numbers are growing. Times are hard and getting harder. One of the farmers told me the other day that it’s cheaper to ship a sack of grain all the way from the prairies of America than from here to London.’
‘Are they all agricultural workers then?’
‘Most of them. But there are unmarried mothers too. Widows with no means of support. Widowers who’d rather live in an institution than fend for themselves without a wife to care for them. And then there’s the tramps and drunkards. Most of those only stay a few days.’
They stared out at the rain, silent for several moments. At last Merritt spoke. ‘I imagine our friend Peter Goody will be joining them soon.’
Hephzibah twisted in her seat to look at him. ‘The poacher? Oh no! Have you seen him again?’
‘I called on him this morning. His wife is trying to care for him but he needs medical help and they have no money to pay for it. He’d had no work for weeks before what happened and the children look half-starved. I took them a basket of food, but he asked me not to come again. He’s terrified of someone telling the squire about his poaching.’
